“On the road again. I just can’t wait to get on the road again.” Willie Nelson begins any road trip I have these days, even if it is just between my home in Los Angeles and visiting friends in Northern California. He expresses pretty perfectly the feeling of freedom I get when I leave the city behind me, a long stretch of open highway ahead. Whether it is “places that I’ve never been” or to an old familiar destination, a road trip is something I truly love. (The song came into my road trip traditions courtesy of A; she wants you to know that.)

I grew up on road trips with my parents, both together and then with one or the other after their divorce. Stylistically there were differences between my mom’s need for having itineraries and reservations, and my dad’s more “let’s see where we end up” preference. (I tend toward the former in my own adulthood.) But the concept was the same, drilling in me a love of seeing the places between the destinations, and reaching worthwhile spots that were otherwise harder to see.

The setup was simple. My parent would drive. I’d be in the front seat, paper maps and AAA guidebooks all around (that ages me), acting as narrator and navigator. My sister would be sprawled across the back seat reading, with our snacks and drinks for the day in bags and a cooler.

My parent would keep me and my inner geographer engaged. “We just passed an exit for (insert name of a random small town in the middle of nowhere off an interstate). What’s here?” I’d open the corresponding guidebook to find the entry, sharing the population and whatever sights AAA thought to mention, if there were any. “There is a sign for Highway (some number, whether state, federal, or a full interstate). Where does that go?” My map would come out, and I’d relay that information. If it was to my mom, the route was set so it was just that, information, a game of geography. If it was to Dad, it might come with a follow-up. “Does it look pretty?” That was a harder question from my maps, but I’d try to judge. And if so, we would potentially turn off, seeing where the new road led. (Sometimes my sister would vote. Other times she would say to quit bothering her in the middle of a book.)

When one of us got hungry, we would find a spot to eat by the side of the road. Or we would call to my sister in the back. “Commissary!” She would put her book down to hand up a snack.

Games would be played at times, trying to engage enough to keep my sister and me invested. We would count license plates of different states, try to spot all the letters of the alphabet (x is so easy on road trips with frequent exits and call boxes), or to see wildlife. That last one was the family favorite. Basically, you’d try to spot a wild animal. (Little common things like squirrels and birds didn’t count, and neither did anything domesticated.) Upon seeing one, you’d shout “ice cream” and point. And if it was confirmed, we would ALL get ice cream that day. (The limit was one ice cream, so thousands of bison in Yellowstone didn’t let us go nuts.)

These are memories that still make me smile today. And these trips have led to some truly amazing experiences. I’ve visited all 50 US states, virtually all on road trips, along with several Canadian provinces. I’ve been to dozens of national parks, all sorts of roadside attractions (huge statues of dinosaurs in Cabazon, CA or the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City, KS, anyone?), eaten roadside produce from stands and gourmet lunches at luxury lodges, and listened to all manner of radio stations. I’ve been on good interstate highways and things that can’t really in good conscience be called roads, always relieved (and surprised) when the old Honda made it back out in one piece.

Even today, I absolutely love pretty much every aspect of a road trip. (I don’t do them often, though, since long days of driving don’t allow for A to work, and our trips always have to be balanced with her busy schedule.) Radio is now Pandora, the car is now a bit comfier, and snacks are a little healthier, but the car feels no less like home for the duration than it once did. My maps might be virtual now instead of paper, my guidebooks replaced by reading online articles or looking a place up on Wikipedia, but the feeling of wonder at where the road might lead hasn’t subsided a bit.

Within the US, the perfect road trip begins with the units of the national parks system, few of which exist within an easy drive of a major city. It is fun to piece some of those together, almost like a puzzle, trying to decide what can reasonably be driven and seen in a given day. Gone are the truly abhorrently long days, waking up in Los Angeles and trying to make it 12-14 hours before finding a hotel for the night. (Although I did make it from El Paso back to Los Angeles in one go after testing positive for Covid. That was not a fun drive.) In their place, I add more historic sites and markers, an interesting short hike or nature walk, a small museum. There is always something to see, to learn, to taste, to experience, no matter where the road leads. (And it tends to lead to another national park, at least for me.)

I am now the driver. (And the planner.) A is now the navigator, and the backseat still holds the snacks but without a commissary department on location. We still count license plates (we got both Alaska and Hawaii within twenty minutes of each other outside of Tucson, AZ on one trip), but now also count cows and horses as A’s family road trip tradition calls for. (White horses double your score, but a cemetery on your side sets you back to zero.) We have an itinerary and reservations à la my mother, but still gaze longingly down new roads heading into the horizon à la my father.

And all the while, we gaze out the windows, hoping we will spot… yes, there it is. ICE CREAM!!